


Four Times Peter and Neal Almost Kissed Before They Finally Did

by rabidchild67



Series: Fits and Starts [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Peter and Neal Almost Kissed Before They Finally Did

**Number 1**

“Come on, Jonesy!” Neal laughed. “Give it a whirl!”

It was stupid, really. The team had decided to go out for drinks following the final bust in an antiquities smuggling case that unearthed a rash of stolen Egyptian art, and they were due to blow off some steam. Drinks at the bar had turned into pizza at Famous Original Ray’s (as opposed to Ray’s Original Famous), and that had turned into nightcaps at Neal's. Which had naturally devolved into a game of Spin the Bottle. Naturally.

Neal couldn’t really say whose idea it was – probably Blake or one of the Whips (Peter’s name for the whippersnappers that annually joined the team). But he’d located an empty bottle of Pinot (OK, so he emptied it down his own throat so they could use it), his coffee table had been set aside, and he found himself sitting cross-legged on his rug watching avidly as the bottle spun around and wobbled to a drunken stop. Pointing at Diana. For the fifth time.

“I’m beginning to think this thing’s rigged,” she protested, but gamely accepted a close-mouthed kiss from Clint. 

“Quit beefing,” Neal chided. “Spin away!”

Her spin landed on Neal. “That’s the second time it’s landed on me. Doesn’t that mean a French kiss?” he asked. She gave him a murderous look. “Usually?”

She smiled and leaned forward, and though there were no tongues, she did open her mouth and suck on his bottom lip for a few seconds. When they parted, Neal couldn’t keep his eyes off her full lips for a full 20 seconds. 

“Wow,” Clint breathed, clearly wishing he’d gone for the open mouth too.

“My turn!” Neal announced, breaking the spell. He spun the bottle and it came to a stop on – no one – the gap in the group between Blake and the new girl, Jessica-or-something. “Aw, looks like a miss!” Neal said.

“Oh no it’s not,” Clint said, pointing at Neal's apartment door, where Peter stood with his hands on his hips.

“Peter!” Diana laughed, beckoning for him to come over.

“What’s going on?” Peter asked, trying for his best glower but getting nowhere with his inebriated subordinates.

“Spin the Bottle,” Neal answered. “My spin landed on you.”

“There will be no kissing. No kissing for you,” Peter said soberly.

“Buzz kill,” Neal accused.

“Shouldn’t you all be getting ready for the debrief tomorrow at 8:00 am?” Peter said.

“8:00 am?” Neal protested.

“Douche chill!” Diana muttered under her breath and Clint laughed out loud.

“You want me to make it 7:00?” Peter said, and this time he had his best Dad Voice on. The party broke up soon after.

 

**Number 2**

“I sure will be glad to see this case over,” Neal muttered as he and Peter took the old fashioned, iron lift to the fifth floor of the pre-war warehouse where their suspect had set up a meeting. 

“What makes you say that?” Peter asked, sliding the cage-like door of the elevator open and indicating that Neal should precede him out. 

“Just a bad feeling,” Neal said, his voice low and pensive.

“You developing a gut now, too?” 

Neal placed a hand over his belly and frowned. “Something like that.” He led them through to the office at the back corner of the building; their suspect had been expecting Neal, who’d been posing as a fence, to be bringing over a buyer for a collection of stolen, 6th-century illuminated manuscripts. Neal walked up to the office space and notice it was strangely empty. In fact, the entire building was empty – even though it had been a bustling place of business only twelve hours earlier. Neal laid a hand on Peter’s arm, stopping him from moving any closer. “Wait.”

“What?” Peter said, pausing.

“Something’s wrong.”

“What makes you say so?” Peter said. He was clearly in tune with Neal’s gut reaction, but his need to move forward with the case made him take a step forward physically, and he tripped over something unseen. Then he saw the slight gleam down on the floor of the tripwire that he’d just set off. “Shit.”

“Shit,” Neal agreed, his eyes scanning the room and coming to rest on the bomb that had been mounted to the bottom of the desk on the far side of the room. They had less than 15 seconds to get out of there. “Run!”

They turned in unison and headed back the way they’d come. Neal wasn’t sure if they’d make the stairs beside the elevator, but there was a low, decorative wall constructed out of industrial glass blocks at the far end of the space and he thought that might be as likely a place as any to try to take shelter. Peter had understood his intentions and followed closely behind.

The explosion, when it came, wasn’t nearly as loud as Neal would have thought. In fact, it made almost no sound whatsoever, though that was almost certainly a function of the fact that the concussion of the blast had effectively deafened him.

When he came to, Neal surmised he couldn’t have been out for more than a few seconds, because the acrid smoke that followed the explosion hadn’t had time to fill up entire the space. He first noticed that he was lying on his back, then he was aware that he was lying on something extremely uncomfortable. Finally, he realized he couldn’t move and that’s when the panic set in.

He blinked his eyes, which were streaming now from the smoke, and he may have yelled something, he wasn’t sure, but whatever was pinning him down was still there. He moved his head, and his vision finally cleared, and he realized that the thing pinning him was, in fact, Peter.

“Buddy?” he croaked, or thought he had. 

“Mmmm,” Peter replied. He was lying face down on top of Neal, who could feel the scratchiness of his partner’s beard against his own ear. 

Neal was relieved that Peter was at least alive and breathing, but really, the thing that he was lying on was beginning to _gouge_ “Peter.”

“Armrmerrum,” Peter answered intelligently.

Neal managed to move his right hand up to rest it on Peter’s shoulder, pushing, trying to dislodge him. After a minute, Peter seemed to get his wits about him, and moved of his own volition. “What the _fuck_?” he moaned as he got one hand on the floor to lever himself up.

Neal felt Peter’s cheek dragging against his own when he moved his head over and to his right. As he did, his mouth dragged across the corner of Neal’s. For a moment, their breaths comingled.

“You OK?” Neal asked, staring into Peter’s dazed brown eyes. 

“I think so,” Peter said, but his voice sounded a bit hollow, distant. 

“Can you get up? I mean, are you able to?” Neal didn’t want to think of the damage the blast may have inflicted on his partner, whose body had clearly shielded Neal’s from the worst of it.

“Yeah,” Peter said after thinking for a long moment.

“Good, because we should get out of here, before the smoke gets too bad.” While the bomb appeared to be designed more for concussive force than for pyrotechnics, Neal still didn’t like to think of the dried out and potentially warped floorboards and other wooden structures in this building that might still catch fire.

“OK.” Peter pushed off and struggled to sit up. Neal followed suit, and hauled himself to his feet. Taking stock, he saw that, despite a few cuts and bruises, he seemed to be pretty OK. He glanced down and saw that he’d apparently landed atop a potted palm, and the shards of the planter had been poking him in the back.

He leaned over and offered a hand to pull Peter to his feet. Peter , worryingly, blinked up at him for a few seconds before complying, and so Neal completely forgot to bust his balls for the bizarre intimacy of their post-explosion landing.

Later, at the hospital, as Peter was being treated for a concussion, Neal still couldn’t bring it up, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be thinking about it for a long time.

 

**Number 3**

Neal hated the water.

This wasn’t strictly true – he loved the beach, he loved swimming in the pool at his gym – but deep water was his only true phobia. And while being on the deck of a yacht didn’t exactly make him uneasy, it was still a consideration. 

The yacht in question was owned by his latest mark – though Peter preferred the word “suspect.” Preston Whittington-Chester IV (his honest-to-God name, even Neal couldn’t have made that shit up) was a trust fund baby who was nevertheless quite a financial genius when it came to other people’s money. Until his fondness for cocaine caught up with him, and he used that genius to try to prop up a suspected Ponzi scheme the vastness of which the forensic accountants at the Bureau had only begun to uncover. Neal and Peter were posing as investors – pretty big fish from the fake histories the Cyber Division had concocted – and ol’ Preston had pulled out all the stops to impress, including the party on his 40-foot yacht, the former supermodel girlfriend, and the deep, _deep_ wine cellar that went a long way to impressing Neal.

All was going pretty smoothly until the supermodel girlfriend threw a pass at Neal that was so targeted and unexpected – well, the flirting was almost a defense mechanism, really. When ol’ Preston saw what was happening, he got angry. And when Whittington-Chesters got angry, they apparently resorted to contact sports. And so it was that Neal found himself being tackled and flying off the upper deck of the yacht into the cold waters of Long Island Sound, with nary a thought in his head aside from a very justified, “WTF?”

Neal landed on his back in the water, the shock and the impact literally knocking the air out of his lungs, so that when he was submerged, the pressure imbalance alone was enough to fill his lungs with water nearly instantly. He would later remember reflecting on how fast a death drowning actually turned out to be; all-in-all, despite the pain of the suffocation, which was largely bearable, it wasn’t a horrible way to go. At least to his way of thinking.

It felt like he’d lost consciousness for a long, long time, and yet had not – there was such a strange detachedness to it all from his perspective. But suddenly, he saw blurry, bright lights, and heard voices, though they were indistinct and _just too loud for his preference, thank you very much._

Suddenly there were warm lips on his, blowing air into his lungs, lungs that until very recently had been filled with water, and so there was really no room. All that water needed somewhere to go, because oxygen was far preferable. 

Neal’s first coherent thought was _Holy Mary, Mother of God,_ as he puked up what seemed to be at least two quarts of water from his lungs. He lay coughing brokenly on his side, clutching at the deck with fingers grown numb from the cold water, but at least he was alive now, and here, and safe. 

“Neal?” a familiar voice called, tense and worried and near.

Neal peered up at its source and saw a drenched and bedraggled Peter Burke hovering over him, concern etched in the tight line of his mouth and the stiff set of his shoulders. “Gah!” Neal may have said, but he wasn’t at all certain.

“You OK?” Peter asked, and the panicked tone in his voice was enough to bring Neal completely to his senses.

“I guess,” Neal said and coughed up another lobe of lung, or at least it felt like it. He was pulled into an upright position then, and someone was pressing his head forward between his knees, and being upright like that made him feel a lot better. 

“Jesus!” he wheezed with one final cough.

“That was a close one,” Peter commented.

_You’re not kidding,_ Neal thought. “What the hell?”

“I guess ol’ Preston’s the jealous type, huh?”

“Motherfucker,” Neal spat and took another shuddering breath. “I was just making conversation.”

“Well, I guess we can add attempted murder to the list of charges once this is all over.”

“You saved my life,” Neal pointed out.

“Well…”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. That’s one more you owe me.”

“Guess I’ll just add it to the list.” Neal peered up at him. “You sure you this wasn't just an excuse to mack on me? Ever since that game of Spin the Bottle, you’ve been giving me the eye.” It was always better to defuse a tense situation with a joke, and Neal thought almost dying certainly qualified.

Peter colored, but didn’t say anything. 

And then they were all distracted by ol’ Preston being dragged off by the cops, and by the paramedics wanting to check out Neal, and by police who had a lot of questions, but all the while Neal kept caressing his lips with his fingertips, remembering the warm feel of Peter’s mouth there, and missing it.

 

**Number 4**

“Come on, it’s been an age since we tied one on,” Peter said, shouldering his way into Neal's apartment, brown paper bag under his arm. 

He seemed strange to Neal, his manner clearly off-kilter, though he looked no different than when Neal had left the office at 5:00. But it was Neal's (what? Job? Talent? Curse?) to notice things about people, and Peter’s top button was undone, his hair still bore the tracks of fingers running through it, and the skin around his eyes was just too tight.

“Sounds great,” Neal said as warmly as he could without sounding condescending. He closed the door and followed Peter to the table, where he was unpacking a few bottles of a German doppelbock, a bottle of pinot noir Neal knew for a fact set him back at least a hundred, and a bottle of Jack Daniels. So, it was to be a serious drunk they were trying for tonight. Neal silently took up two bottles of the beer and put them in the fridge, returning to the table with two footed beer glasses and a bottle opener, which he handed to Peter.

Neal was just taking his first swallow of the bitter brew, appreciating its toasty, malty notes, when he noticed that Peter had already downed his and was pouring himself another glass. Neal wandered over to the coffee table, picked up a pack of cards and returned, taking a seat at the table. This kind of drinking needed props.

“El still out of town?” Neal asked, dealing out a hand of gin rummy.

“Yeah,” Peter said and a fond smile flicked across his face for a moment. “She’s in Cape Cod with her college girlfriends. They get together every year.”

“That’s great,” Neal commented, taking up his cards. He knew where she was, of course, but he was just letting Peter talk. Whatever was bothering him would come out eventually. “You hear from her today?”

“They went whale-watching. You know, on one of those boats?”

“Yes, boats are useful when watching whales.”

“There were dolphins.” Peter poured out the rest of the bottle and drank it in one gulp.

“You wanna slow down there, buddy?”

Peter ignored him and picked up the hand of cards Neal had dealt. He moved a few around, then threw one onto the discard pile, picking one up from the deck. “You hear Hughes is retiring?” 

That was news to Neal, who raised his eyebrows in astonishment. He’d always assumed they’d find the old man had died peacefully at his desk one day, hand forever frozen in a double finger-point. “I did not hear that. I’m sure it will be a relief for Sharon.” Neal and Hughes’ wife had unexpectedly hit it off at the office holiday party. 

Peter put his cards down and picked up his glass, holding it in the air in a silent toast, then downed the rest of it. He looked at it sadly and then at Neal, who got up to retrieve another from the fridge. When he returned, he also brought a tray of cheese, olives and bread that he set down between them – he feared for Peter’s empty stomach. Peter opened the second bottle of beer and just began drinking from it, then turned in his chair to look out Neal's windows.

“Andy Feldman died yesterday,” he said quietly.

Understanding began to dawn for Neal. “A friend?”

Peter burped. “Works Organized Crime out in Chicago. Got his own team, like me. Good close rate too.”

“Not as good as yours.”

“No one’s as good as ours,” Peter said wistfully. “Anyway, he’s an asshole.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“We went through the academy together. We were always a bit… competitive. He stole my thesis prep and left me scrambling to find another topic.”

“But you came out top of the class though,” Neal pointed out.

“Yeah,” Peter said with a proud smile. “Despite his best efforts. He was a real prick – always taking short cuts. I hated him as much as he hated me.”

“He sounds like a winner.”

“It’s wrong to speak ill of the dead.”

“It’s not like he’ll hear about it.” 

Peter took a pull at the beer, gave it an unsatisfactory look, then got up to retrieve the Jack and a glass. 

“What’d he die of?” 

Peter shook his head. “Heart attack. Dropped dead on top of his girlfriend. Her kid found them.”

Neal winced. “Jeez… That’s… Wow.” This last comment was directed at Peter, who’d poured himself three fingers and swallowed half of it in one gulp. “So.”

“So?” 

“So why are we tying one on?” 

Peter just shook his head and finished his drink. He was about to pour himself another when Neal stayed his hand. He replaced the bottle with a chunk of baguette, pushing Peter’s hand towards him. Peter held the bread in front of his mouth for a few seconds then let his hand drop into his lap. “He was 47.”

_Ah ha,_ Neal thought, finally understanding. Andy was younger than Peter, and now he was dead. Neal poured himself some Jack and took a swig, then set the glass back on the table. “Was he a fit guy?”

“Andy? Not really. Had the, you know,” Peter gestured around his midsection.

“Spare tire?”

“To fit a semi.”

“Huh. So, not exactly living up to his academy heyday.”

“Probably not,” Peter said morosely and poured himself more whiskey. After a few minutes, he started talking again. “He had this old, gold-plated Zippo lighter he’d always play with, snapping it open and closed. Freaking annoying.”

“A smoker?”

“Like a pack and a half a day.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Always said the cigs masked the taste of the cheap vodka he drank.”

“So to sum up, he was overweight, a heavy smoker, and drank a lot.” Peter looked at Neal blankly. “And his death is a shock?”

“It’s not like that,” Peter said, getting up from the table. The alcohol had clearly gotten to him, because he swayed on his feet.

Neal got up and went over, putting a hand on Peter’s chest to steady him. “It’s exactly like that. Look, Peter, it’s OK to be weirded out by the fact someone you know, a contemporary, has died. He was a young man. Just like you.”

Peter blew air out of his mouth and pushed at Neal's shoulder, but Neal had his feet planted, and Peter was still wobbly, so the movement only caused him to become more unbalanced. Peter stumbled back and Neal grabbed him by the arm, overcompensating as he tried to pull Peter upright. The result was that they wound up falling to the floor, Neal on his back and Peter landing on top of him with a dull “oof!”

Peter had his hands on either side of Neal's head and pushed up slightly. He looked at Neal with eyes that seemed to be focused one second, glassy the next. “Sorry, buddy,” he muttered.

“No worries,” Neal said, trying to maintain a calm voice. But Peter’s car keys were in his front pants pocket, and they were _digging into Neal's thigh_. He squirmed a little, to try to get Peter to get off him, but Peter was staring at him, an odd expression on his face. Neal recognized that expression – he’d never had it directed at him by Peter, of course, but he’d gotten it countless times from any one of a hundred lovers, marks and friends over the years. As Peter leaned into him, Neal reacted fast and placed his fingers over Peter’s lips, stopping the kiss that they would both regret too much.

Peter blinked and then pulled back again, seeming to accept Neal's intervention. “Your eyes are really blue,” he observed finally.

“Yes.”

“Like El’s.”

“Yes,” Neal said softly and looked away.

“I think I’ve had too much to drink.”

“You think?”

Peter rolled off of Neal, who got up quickly and pulled the inebriated agent to his feet. “Come on, Drunky, it’s time all good boys went to sleep.” 

He led Peter to his bed, sat him down and encouraged him to get his jacket and shoes off, followed by his tie. Peter’s movements were slow and too deliberate, and so Neal wound up doing most of the work for him. He pushed gently at Peter’s shoulders to get him to lie back, made him lift his legs onto the bed and then covered him with the throw that was draped across the duvet.

“Don’t you want your bed?” Peter asked.

“The couch is fine,” Neal said, turning to go.

Peter grabbed his wrist and held it lightly. “Neal? In case I forget, thanks for taking care of me,” he said quietly.

“You’d do the same,” Neal assured him, gently extricating himself and pushing Peter’s hand under the blanket. He moved away again.

“Neal?” Peter called a few minutes later as Neal was choosing a book from the shelf.

“Yeah?”

“You really think I’m young?”

“A spring chicken. Now get some sleep.”

 

**Finally**

“Hey,” Peter said, all chipper and standing in the doorway of Neal's apartment.

“Hey,” Neal said curtly, his hand resting on the doorframe.

Peter ducked his head as if he knew he’d done something wrong. “I’m sorry, I should have called first. You’ve got a date with Mark tonight don’t you?”

Neal pushed off the doorframe and spun around, walking back into the apartment. “Mark and I are – no more.”

“Oh? I’m really sorry, Neal.”

Neal shrugged. “Don’t be,” he said, his voice tight, clipped. “I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.” Neal had stopped beside the table, his back stiff. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No.” Neal's voice betrayed more hurt than he was feeling, he would swear.

“El says I’m a good listener.”

Neal turned; Peter’s face was so earnest, he nearly smiled. “A good interrogator, you mean.”

“Potayto, potahto.” He sidled over to the table and pulled out the chair at its head for Neal. “Sit,” he ordered and Neal complied. “Spill,” he said, taking his own seat right beside him. 

“He ended it. Today. Over Skype.”

Peter flinched. “Harsh. Did he say why?”

“He said I hide too much, that I’m too closed-off.”

“He knows you’re an ex-conman – this should come as no surprise.”

Neal stared at him, hurt. “You think so too?” 

“Do I?” He seemed to actually be thinking it through, which hurt Neal even more. “No. But I know you, warts and all. And buddy… there are a lot of warts.” 

Neal's face went white. “I will never find anyone to love me, will I? I mean, not really.” The room felt like it was closing in on him. 

“Of course you will, but it takes time to build up enough trust, especially when you’ve got the kind of colorful past that you have.”

“I’m damaged goods, is that what you’re saying?” 

Peter sighed. “Why are you even this upset?” he asked, trying a different tack. “I thought this was supposed to be a casual thing with Mark anyway?”

“It _was_. At least I thought so, until –“

“Until what?”

“He met Alex.”

Peter actually flinched. “You mean the hot, glamorous, international thief and fence made the kindergarten teacher from Canarsie feel a little threatened? _Quelle surprise._ ”

“Stop speaking French,” Neal snapped.

Peter took a deep breath. “Neal,” he said kindly, “why are you letting yourself get worked up over this? You’ve been with him for less than three months.”

“So?”

“Exactly! So what?”

“So what if I can never find anyone?” Neal couldn’t keep the tears from his eyes. “What if I’m not meant to be with anyone? What if Kate was my one and only shot?”

“She wasn’t.”

“What if I don’t deserve it?” Neal said in a small voice.

Peter leaned forward, his left forearm resting on the table edge, his eyes bright with conviction. “Listen to me, Neal, because I’m only going to say this once. You are a terrific man – loving, smart, talented. Any man or woman would be lucky to have you, they just have to be able to _see you_ for who you really are.”

“What if they don’t?” 

And then Peter’s right hand was cupping Neal's face, and he’d leaned even closer and pressed his forehead against Neal's. “I see you,” Peter said, and then he kissed him.

Empirically, it was perhaps one of the most chaste kisses Neal had ever received. Peter’s lips were parted, somewhat dry, his pressure gentle, almost tentative. But his lips were also soft, and yielding, and when Neal returned the kiss, leaning forward and putting his hands on Peter’s chest, he let Neal lead in a wholly unexpected way, as if he sensed all along how much Neal had been wanting it, and didn’t want to spoil it for him. Neal, for what it was worth, appreciated the consideration.

“God, really?” Neal breathed when they finally parted, caressing Peter’s now-swollen bottom lip with the fingers of his right hand. 

“If you want,” Peter answered, cocking his head to the side, an inquisitive look on his face.

Oh, Neal wanted, and he showed Peter exactly how much with the next kiss. And the next. And the next several hundred thousand.

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
